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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871078">The Curriculum | EXTRACURRICULARS</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayonakaNoAme/pseuds/MayonakaNoAme'>MayonakaNoAme</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff and Smut, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:48:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayonakaNoAme/pseuds/MayonakaNoAme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot, smutty side-scene to “The Curriculum”. Professor Cloud Strife, an Industrial Arts teacher at Midgar Preparatory High school, is facing new management halfway through the school year, headed by an old flame, Headmistress Tifa Lockhart. After weeks of mounting tension, professional and otherwise, things finally come to a head one sweltering evening. Even educators sometimes need to be taught a lesson.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tifa Lockhart &amp; Cloud Strife, Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>88</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Curriculum | EXTRACURRICULARS</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “The quality of life is determined by its activities.” </em>
</p><p>- Aristotle </p><p>[ : <b>The Curriculum</b> : ]</p><p>EXTRACURRICULARS</p><p>Cloud Strife didn’t believe in Hell. </p><p>And yet, on one especially harsh, midwinter’s evening, the Midgarian climate seemed determined to make a believer out of him. It was so humid that every step felt like he was wading knee-deep through a swamp, invisible leeches feasting on his will to live. </p><p>Shoving an overladen wheelbarrow into his ‘office’ (aka: the abandoned woodshed hidden among campus yard’s trees), only then did Cloud allow himself a much needed minute to catch his breath, hunched over and panting with his hands clasped onto his knees. The back of his blue button-down shirt was glued to his back with sweat, black-framed glasses lenses so fogged up that the entire forest appeared shrouded in mist. </p><p>If the weather alone wasn’t bad enough, the newly-enforced, faculty dress-code rendered things officially unbearable. That woman was, perhaps legitimately, trying to kill him. </p><p>As <em> she </em>sprung to mind, unbidden, Cloud chanced a glance up at the school building’s central terrace which he knew connected to the Headmistress’s office. Only upon confirming that the lights were all dark did he dare loosen his tie and shirt buttons, stripping them off and hanging both on a nail hammered into the tin siding. </p><p>It was too damn hot to complete such work otherwise, which was why he had waited till sunset to begin. Not that anyone but <em> her </em> ever complained about what he wore or didn’t wear <em> . </em></p><p>“Professor Strife?” </p><p>Speaking of the devil…</p><p>“<em> Shit, </em>” he hissed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut. The voice of course belonged to the one and only Headmistress Lockhart: his boss and, to a select few, the girl with whom he had lost his…</p><p>In short; with whom he had a <em> complicated </em>history. </p><p>That was a long time ago. Nearly a decade, to be more specific. In the weeks since she had taken the Headmistress position and catapulted back into his life, their every interaction could at best be described as ‘<em> awkward’ </em> if not downright <em> ‘contentious’ </em>. He was far from eager to add another squabble to the growing list.  </p><p>“I know, I know,” he muttered through a groan, already reaching for his damp, dress-shirt and punching one arm through the sleeve. “This is the ‘<em> esteemed Midgar Preparatory, not the HoneyBee Inn’ </em>. Yadda. Yadda. Ya-”</p><p>The quip died in his throat once he finally faced her. </p><p>Tifa Lockhart, a girl he had once considered the crux of his universe in a town where the stars glowed brighter than the street lamps, was revealed to be in a rare state of unkemptness, fireflies gleefully encircling her figure.</p><p>In such twilight, her skin appeared downright luminescent thanks to a thin sheen of perspiration and the once jarring red-paint on her lips had faded to more of a dusty rose. Her hair was loose and wind-tousled, the top few buttons of her white, silk blouse undone, slingback heels clutched in one hand, allowing her bare feet to sink into the grass. </p><p>She was beautiful.  </p><p>Of course, she had <em> always </em> been beautiful. Even earlier that day, when that same hair had been twisted in a painfully tight-looking knot, not one strand out of place, the blouse pinned closed at her throat with that stupid gold halo broach, his eyes could not help but linger. She attracted him the same way any other priceless sculpture did; appreciating the shape and artistry while constantly aware that it was composed of cold, untouchable rock. </p><p>“Hi,” he greeted in a tone that was mortifyingly high-pitched. Clearing his throat, he tried to reset. “I mean- hello, Headmistress.” </p><p>“Hello, Professor Strife.” The ghost of a grin glimmered on her lips, free hand tucking some wayward hair behind her ear. “I, ummm- I didn’t think anyone would be out here this late. Just needed a walk. Clear my head a bit, ya know?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Cloud nodded before shimmying his loosened black tie back over his head, careful to avoid snagging on his glasses. “I get that.”</p><p>Glancing over his shoulder, she inspected the teetering wheelbarrow. “What you got there?” she asked with what seemed to be genuine curiosity instead of the accusatory lilt he had grown accustomed to. </p><p>He shrugged, feeling like a used cars’ salesman trying to pawn off a lemon. “Just some crap from the junkyard. I head there every couple of days for class materials.”</p><p>“You get your materials...from the junkyard?” One perfectly groomed eyebrow shot up in surprise. “Why?”</p><p>“Lack of any other option,” he stated bluntly while fastening a few, random buttons along his chest. “The Industrial Arts budget set by your predecessor barely covers a handful of screws, so I’ve learned to improvise.” With a tilt of his head, he invited her closer, reaching to slide the woodshed doors open to their full width. Hesitantly, she tiptoed through the grass and dirt until they were standing side by side, staring into the pitch blackness. </p><p>Upon flicking a switch, criss-crossing strings of naked bulbs flickered to life above them, revealing a treasure trove of repurposed, pine desks splattered with oil stains and semi-dismantled engines, shelves holding a kaleidoscope of children’s sand-buckets overflowing with hardware, a pegboard wall of hanging tools, plus a hodge-podge pile of who-knows-what dumped in the center of it all. </p><p>Tifa’s jaw dropped as she stepped past the threshold, looking equal parts impressed and concerned. Only then did he remember that, no matter how uncharacteristically informal she appeared, this was still <em> the </em> Headmistress Lockhart. The woman who had threatened to cut off his benefits if he dared wear running shoes to class one more time. The woman who insisted he reconfigure his entire teaching philosophy just to humor some over-starch shirts on the Board. </p><p>He shouldn’t have shown her this. To him and a few key students, it was a fantasy, secret laboratory where an engineer’s imagination could run rampant. To her and probably many others, he had simply conquered this space without any regard for the administration. </p><p>Before he could attempt convincing her to turn a blind eye, that the survival of his course depended upon it, she spoke:</p><p>“You once told me you didn’t <em> do </em> extracurriculars,” she reminded him somewhat teasingly, dropping her shoes on the least occupied desktop. “When I made the request that every teacher choose an activity outside school hours to mentor, you put up such a damn fight. Yet you spend your spare time here, doing this...I don’t get it.”</p><p>Scratching at the back of his neck, Cloud shrugged. “This is just me...doing my best. “</p><p>“Hmm.” Lockhart walked up another desk to poke at some random collage of soldered screws. “I suppose this sort of stuff is more entertaining than writing that new syllabus I asked for weeks ago?” </p><p>And there she went off again, evaporating any strived-for wisps of camaraderie like a raindrop on a hot skillet. That goddamn, revamped curriculum of hers. She was obsessed. Blinded by dreams of a sparkly, conveyor belt education system that churned out perfectly poised, well-rounded students; every single one ready and willing to take on the world upon graduating. </p><p>It was as though she had never before met a flesh and blood teenager. No amount of <em> planning </em> would ever remove the majority of their heads out of their asses.   </p><p>“I’ll get to it when I get to it,” he all but barked towards her, fists clenching at his sides. “You told me I had till spring break. So, until then, with all due respect: get off my back.” </p><p>That seemed to provoke her. Twisting around, she pinned him with those flashing carmine eyes which never failed to invoke heat throughout his blood. Though what sort of heat often varied. </p><p>“I was <em> trying </em>to encourage you not to wait till the last minute. You always did procrastinate. Ever since we were kids.”</p><p>Cloud couldn’t help it. He rolled his eyes so hard he feared they’d get stuck in the back of his head. “So this is how you’re finally gonna broach the subject? Seriously?”</p><p>“What subject?”</p><p>“Us.”</p><p>She scoffed at that, crossing her arms over her chest, reverting into ‘boss’ mode despite the loose hair and lack of footwear. “There is no ‘<em> us’ </em>, Professor Strife. It was one summer, ages ago. I’ve had longer relationships with a pack of gum.”</p><p>Feeling his nails dig into the skin of his palms, he tried to calm down. He tried to remember that they were colleagues. Professionals. Pillars of this increasingly unbalanced community, considering all the recent scandals that she was barely managing to keep a lid on: the previous Headmaster, Heidegger’s, embezzlement and Junior student, Ruvie Tuesti’s highly publicized pregnancy, to name a few. </p><p>Cloud wanted to throw her some slack. To recognize that this terse, inflexible attitude was but a facade shielding a terrified young woman also just trying her best. She wouldn’t be out here, after dusk, so relatively disheveled, otherwise.</p><p>He tried. </p><p>He really did. </p><p>What he couldn’t bring himself to forgive was the implication that their short-lived, candle-flame of a connection hadn’t meant something more. </p><p>“Get out,” he said sternly, pointing a finger towards the door, unable to handle another second in her suffocating presence. </p><p>“Professor Strife, come on. Surely we can come to a-”</p><p>“<em> Please, </em>just…” he sucked in a staggered breath, feeling the mako within his veins pulsing with urges he could not control. “Just go.”</p><p>“You’re being a child.”</p><p>“So what if I am?” He kicked over a tin can full of bolts just to prove it. “I’m off the clock so you’re not my employer right now. <em> You </em> are just another one of the many over entitled jackasses that think you own this place. Think you own <em> me </em>. Well you don’t. ” </p><p>He watched as she released her own unstable sigh, leaning back against the edge of the nearest, wonky desk. After a minute overflowing with tension, she seemed to contemplate something while scanning him head to toe, gaze notably lingering on his chest. Only then did he realize that he hadn’t properly redressed. His tie still hung loosely around his neck, slivers of skin peaking through the mostly open buttons of his blue dress shirt.</p><p>Without really understanding why or how, his glasses start to fog up again. Only a little. At the edges.  </p><p> “You look good, Cloud,” she eventually said, so quietly he almost missed it beneath the hum of the bulbs. </p><p> “Good?” he repeated, ignoring the flare spurred from her using his first name, melting down the delicate gears of his mind. A minute ago he had been so angry. Now he struggled to remember why. “Wha-what do you mean?”</p><p>“You know what I mean.” Her eyes were narrowed but still humor-filled, line-of-sight hovering somewhere below his neck. “You...filled out. Comparative to high school.”</p><p>“Uhh, thanks?” Glancing down, he tried to find exactly what drew her attention. Maybe he had a couple of burrs stuck to his shirt or something. The search ended fruitlessly. For she was obviously looking at <em> him </em>. At his body. </p><p>The notion was as thrilling as it was terrifying. </p><p>“You, umm, filled out too.” He gestured vaguely around her chest area before realizing what that could imply and his cheeks immediately flushed red. “Not like...! I didn’t mean-” Wincing, he rubbed at the skin beneath the bridge of his glasses while she giggled. It was like being seventeen all over again, which no self-respecting, adult male ever wanted to revisit. “You look good too, was all I meant. You-”</p><p>“Hold that thought.” Suddenly, Tifa was striding forward with a single finger outstretched. Before he could think to avoid it, her thumb was sliding across his cheekbone, stretching the skin taut. “You have a smudge of...motor oil, right here,” she explained casually, as if this were something she would do for anyone. While he stiffly tolerated her probing, at this close range, of course their eyes inevitably snagged. Hers were the same dark burgundy he remembered, sparkling like wine in crystal, making him feel lightheaded and like his tongue was too big for his mouth.</p><p>“Thanks,” he told her in a mere whisper, not wanting to disrupt the fragility of this moment. She didn’t pull aways long after the smudge must have been eliminated, thumb lingering on his cheek and triggering electric shocks throughout the network of his nerves. </p><p>They stood like that, frozen in some alternate dimension, for what could have been a minute, could have been an hour. Some ethereal place where their past entanglement had never truly severed, just stretched on as a single thread all these years and was currently being woven into something new. Something sturdier. </p><p>“Damn.” A lengthy exhale was released as she shamelessly gawked. “Your eyes...they’re still so...”</p><p>At this, he couldn’t help but chuckle. “The same? Yeah. Kinda stuck with them.”</p><p>“Right. Of course.” It was her turn to flush with embarrassment, though she still didn’t look away or drop her hand from his cheek. “I had forgotten. They always did make me feel…” she trailed off as that same, wicked hand wandered down to his collar, to his chest, pressing delicately against his pectorals hidden beneath the half open dress-shirt. </p><p>This was officially unprofessional. Oh, how he <em> craved </em>it. </p><p>“Headmistress,” he said in warning, swallowing so loudly he swore it echoed off the tin walls of the woodshed, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face. Had this been ten years ago, he wouldn't have had any doubt of where this would lead. But things were different now. <em> Wrong </em> now. They weren’t teenagers anymore, testing boundaries without any real responsibility. For morality’s sake, he felt the need to remind her: “You’re my...boss.”</p><p>“No.” Shaking her head, it seemed her contemplation had come to an end. She had decided something. “No, tonight I’m not your boss, Professor. I’m just an entitled jackass, right? A bad person who needs to be taught a lesson?” </p><p>She purposefully phrased it as a somewhat vague question, giving him an easy out if desired. Of course it inspired the opposite effect. The gears started spinning in his head to the point of smoking, infusing him with a plethora of wild ideas should she truly be implying what he thought she was implying. </p><p>He prayed she recognized the fire in his eyes; that she was aware of what was struggling against its leash the longer she kept touching him.</p><p>When she opened her mouth to speak again, three of his fingers rose to press against her lips. Without really realizing it, he seemed to have decided something too. </p><p>“No talking in my class, Miss Lockhart,” he warned, voice having acquired a dangerous edge that even he didn’t recognize. </p><p>Tifa gasped, eyes growing wide and equally fire-filled. He felt the curve of her elated smile beneath his hand. Only when she started to lean forward, confirming that they were on the same page in this bargain-bin, romance-novel of a situation, did his digits fall to be replaced with the searing heat of his lips. </p><p>It had been a long time <em> - too </em> long - since he had kissed anyone. Though, he supposed, it was a bit like riding a bike. With mouths. </p><p>Initially, they proceeded as if they were teenagers again; timid and slow, safely closed-mouthed, desperate to please. After a mere few seconds, such illusion was thrown out the window and there was nothing <em> innocent </em> about it. Especially when, at the same time as his tongue probed between her teeth, one of her hands moved down to decisively cup the front of him through his slacks. </p><p>“<em>Fuckkk</em>...” he hissed upon contact, eyes snapping open in shock. All it took was one firm squeeze and he was instantly, painfully hard. <em>That </em>part of him had similarly been too long ignored. Both his blood and his breath seem to have fled the top half of his body and it was getting more and more difficult to simply stay on his feet.</p><p>“Such language<em> , </em> Professor Strife!” she chastised between bites to his lower lip, squeezing even more harshly, forcing a whimper to fall from his lips.</p><p>“Tifa…I-”</p><p>“<em> Headmistress </em>,” she corrected, pulling away to look him in the eye. Her rose-colored lipstick was smeared beyond one corner of her mouth, making her appear especially wild and untethered, like a predator just beginning to feast. “We’re professionals, are we not?”</p><p>Taking a moment to rake in his desperation, he managed a shaky though sly grin. This was to be a game, he quickly realized. He had never been a fan of games. Never really seen the point let alone fun. Something implied - most likely the upward sliding up her palm - that Tifa was about to enlighten him.  </p><p>“I thought <em> you </em> were the one who needed to be taught a lesson,” he reminded, crowding her with a step forward until her ass hit the edge of the desk, causing her breath to catch. “You can’t have it both ways. Either I’m Cloud Strife, your underling. Or-“ He nipped at her ear lobe, riled up by the moan she relinquished. “I’m <em> Professor </em>Strife, your disciplinarian.” </p><p>His hips aligned with hers, pressing against the desk so forcefully that the whole piece started to drag across the cement. Instinctively, Tifa hopped up on its surface and tried to spread her legs so that he fit between, keeping up the grinding, but the skirt was too damn tight and he couldn’t get past her knees.</p><p>“Urg!” She gritted her teeth as his mouth drew a wet path down her neck, his torso forced to remain an agonizing foot away while she haggled with the skirt hem, trying and failing to shimmy it up high enough. </p><p>“Choose, Headmistress<em> , </em>” he continued to goad her, hands pressed to the desktop on both sides, falling deeply in love with this new character of his, regardless of which coin face she ended up betting on. “Who do you want me to be?”</p><p>“I want...I’m <em> trying </em>to- Oh, fuck it.” That was when he heard the first rip. Looking down at her lap, he could only watch, fascinated, as she tore a slit from knee to hip along the seam of what was surely a costly piece of clothing. He almost stopped her, if only due to his ‘waste-not, want-not’ philosophy. Before he could, she was already hiking it up to the top of her hips, revealing a red, damp triangle shielding her most intimate crease. </p><p>If that sight wasn’t heart-stopping enough, matching straps dangled over the top of each thigh, implying that she usually wore thigh-high stockings attached to a garter belt beneath all those stupid conservative skirts. Such an image was almost enough to end things for him with extreme, mortifying prematurity. </p><p>In his defense, it really had been a while. </p><p>He must have been hypnotized for a couple of seconds too long, for he soon was being yanked forward by the tie, forced to adjust his stance and settle between the clench of her thighs. </p><p>“Professor Strife...” she began, one hand lowering to the desk for support so that she could lean back and undo a couple more buttons. Between the open sides of her blouse, a hint of red lace peaked through, barely containing the swell of her generous cleavage. She really had ‘filled out’ well over the years. A little too well. </p><p>Gulping, he forced his eyes back up to hers, needing to establish the scenario before they went any further. Deep beneath those crimson irises, he could practically see the cogs turning in her head, debating how she wanted this to play out.</p><p>In the end, her decision was easy. </p><p>Oh-so-many hours of her day were spent chastising and commanding. Here, only with him - a man who had known and explored her prior to donning the white-collar costume of makeup, heels and suits - could she let go. </p><p>“What’s my detention gonna be, Professor?” </p><p>Cloud mouth twisted into a slow, salacious grin. He had been hoping she’d choose that one. Maybe next time they played, she’d wear the stockings and heels and he’d let her torture him as Headmistress again. </p><p>For tonight, though…</p><p>“I’m a fair teacher,” he insisted as his palms settled atop her thighs and forced them further apart. “Though an admittedly impatient one. I’ll give you a choice.”</p><p>“O-Okay,” she stuttered, cheeks growing red and breath short, forehead beaded with sweat even though he had barely touched her. Perhaps his initial ‘no taking’ command had been too hasty. Words could be equally effective as actions, it seemed. </p><p>“Okay <em> sir </em> ,” he corrected, digging his nails into the firm flesh hard enough to make her whine. “You <em> will </em>show me respect.”</p><p>“Yesss. Sir!” </p><p>“Good.” He released his hold, gently stroking to soothe any marks he had made. “Detention option 1: I lay you down on <em> top </em> of this desk and fuck you senseless or option 2: I bend you <em> over </em>this desk and fuck you senseless.”</p><p>“Oh, my…” At those offerings, the legs he was holding open started to tremble, like a tiny earthquake beneath his palms. Words. Who would have guessed that <em> words </em>would do half the work? Intriguing. “Seems like either way, both me and this desk are fucked.” </p><p>“That’s the idea,” he deadpanned, wading deeper into the act, taking it as seriously as any final examination. How he relished this power after so many years of helplessness. It didn’t matter that it was temporary and all in his head. Tifa, perhaps, knew he needed this. Silently, he vowed to ensure she was thoroughly - if not roughly - rewarded. </p><p>“Hmm.” Hooking a leg behind his waist, she forced him a few inches closer, pulling him by the tie again so that their mouths aligned. “Why not both?” </p><p>She kissed like she was trying to devour him. All tongue and teeth. It was distracting enough that he hardly noticed when she started unbuckling his belt. Acknowledging that they were approaching a key juncture, he clawed his glasses off his face and placed them on the far edge of the desk for safekeeping. </p><p>“No!” she protested, swiping them off the surface and shoving them back onto the bridge of his nose so forcefully he wouldn’t be surprised to find a bruise there come morning. As he looked at her with a cocked, questioning eyebrow, she seemed to wither a bit.  “Please, just...keep them on. Please?” </p><p>Then, as if to obstruct further interrogation, a hand dove straight and true into the open fly of his pants. Her palm was like a brand against his bare flesh, making him wince and buck against her. </p><p>It was decided that he didn’t care to know her reasons. </p><p>Carefully, his thumbs trailed up along her femurs and under her skirt, just beginning to venture inward, trying to go slowly. Oh so <em> slowly </em>. Still inches from her core, he could already feel the slickness that had escaped the confines of her panties and had coated her inner thighs. </p><p>“Wow,” he muttered in awe, fumbling and dropping the act of the apathetic ‘Professor’. “Miss Lockhart. You’re <em> really </em>-”</p><p>“For you, Professor,” she explained breathlessly, the hand in his pants venturing lower and squeezing, inspiring him up onto his toes. “Only to please you.” </p><p>Gods, he didn’t think it was possible but he was getting even harder. His patience with the game was wearing thin. Too much time has passed. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself inside her again. But one issue did ring in his ears. There had already been one accidental pregnancy which had, apparently, occurred on this campus and was still prompting headlines. It was enough to eclipse the mood. “Dammit. I don’t have any...I didn’t think to bring-”  </p><p>“It’s fine,” Tifa insisted, hand never slowing its ministrations while his own slipped past the elastic edge and began stroking the discovered pool, making her every muscle clench. “Just...don’t finish inside me. It’s fine. Please don’t stop. You’re <em> fucking </em> fired if you dare... <em> mmph! </em>...stop.” </p><p>With a heartbreaking desperation, she shimmied her hips to the desk edge, close enough that he could feel her heat and slipperiness against his cock. It brought all ability for logical thought to a screeching halt. Before he knew it, without consciously directing his body to do so,  he had hooked two fingers beneath the soaking red fabric, yanked her panties to the side and was smoothly gliding all the way inside her.</p><p>This was so stupid. </p><p>So mind-blowingly <em> phemonenal </em>but stupid. He was in so deep he swore he saw the stars of Nibelheim again. Knowing it probably wasn’t possible, he felt she had become ever tighter over the years, and praised every God he could think to name for this opportunity to compare. </p><p>“<em> Ffffuck </em>!” Tifa yelled after he made a few, experimental thrusts, nails digging into the back of his head, ankles hooked at the small of his back. “Cloud!...I-I’m gonna come.” </p><p>“What? Already?” Though, as an educator, he always had prided himself on efficiency, this was not the way he wanted their blessed reunion to conclude. This was more of a grenade than the intended fireworks display; equally thrilling but over in a mere flash, leaving more destruction than beauty. He decided to lean into this disappointment. To have ‘<em> Professor Strife’ </em>, whoever the guy was, voice it.  “No. You can’t. You haven’t earned it yet.” </p><p>Slipping out of her, he stepped back, letting her fall, a boneless starfish, against the desk, stunned into silence. </p><p>“Stand up,” he commanded, cock in hand, always at the ready. </p><p> “But...Strife, for the love of-” She sat up onto her elbows and pinned him with a glare, the compliant student personae set aflame by frustration. “I was <em> there </em>! You only needed to-” </p><p>“You’re being <em> punished, </em>Miss Lockhart.” He didn’t let up the act, too far gone by that point. “Was that not clear?” </p><p>Whimpering, corner of her eyes prickling with tears, still she did as asked and slowly rose onto feet, shaking like a newborn lamb. “You’re such...an <em> asshole </em>.” </p><p>“Language!” Grabbing her wrists, Cloud spun her around and forcefully bent her over the desk. He was vaguely aware that he was losing control. Something about seeing her like this, ripped grey skirt bunched around her waist, hair spilled over the desk, hands splayed and grasping at nothing...this was what a truly free Tifa Lockhart looked like. Not the version that sat up on a terrace looking down at them all, daintily sipping tea, tightly coiffed, proper to the point of pretentious. That wasn’t the real her.</p><p>“You are being unforgivably rude,” he whispered darkly as he leaned over her, something primal taking hold. “I ought to spank you for that.” </p><p>A hand slid down her exposed backside in warning, waiting for her reaction. One hint of fear or disinterest and he’d move on. That part of him, the part that could never enjoy such play without outright enthusiasm, not just consent, kept him restrained. </p><p>Eventually, after a moment’s contemplation, she responded exactly as he hoped she would. Though this was never something they had discussed let alone explored in their youth. Somehow, he just knew her inclinations would take this masochistic turn. </p><p>“I deserve it,” she muttered with a breathless laugh, arching so that her ass rose in the air in invitation. “I want to be punished.”</p><p>He didn’t need to hear any more. </p><p>With an open hand, he drew back and then smacked her with as much force as he dared. She cried out wantonly, nails scratching new divots into the pine. The sight of his red handprint on the pale, smooth flesh of her behind triggered bursts of near-orgasmic satisfaction inside his head. So he did it again.</p><p>And again. </p><p>Slightly harder that third and last time, keeping his hand in place, rubbing smooth circles to ease the sting. </p><p>“<em> Damn </em> ... <em> ” </em>   Her hands gripped the opposite edge of the desk like it was her last handhold on earth, whole body sweat-soaked and quivering. “That was...I never even <em> imagined </em> that <em> - </em>“</p><p>“No talking, Miss Lockhart,” he interrupted, free hand pressing down by the back of her throat. “Class isn’t over yet.”</p><p>She chuckled, pressing one cheek against the wood to look at him with those sparkling red eyes of hers. Her lipstick was thoroughly smeared across her mouth by that point, hair a sweaty tangle, looking every bit the part of a submissive, though both knew very well that it was pure fantasy. He wasn’t in control here. Never had and never would be.</p><p>At the end of the night, she would always end up holding the reins. Even while remaining dutifully silent for him, he understood the unspoked command in her gaze, pushing him to go for it. Insisting that he finish what he started. </p><p>Erection in hand, he approached and carefully positioned himself just so, until the mere tip slipped past that tight ring of heat at her entrance. She moaned but otherwise kept quiet, eyes clenched shut. Somehow, it felt even better, tighter, this way. Drawing out the moment as they acclimated, his hands crawled up her forearms until their fingers entwined, chest pressed against her back, pinning her down. </p><p>“You’ll come only when I say you can come,” he murmured into her ear before pushing fully inside again, all the way to the hilt. Gritting her teeth at the sudden and overwhelming intrusion, she tried to hold back, tried so hard to be good. He built up a rough but steady pace, summoning memories both old of new, sweet and bitter, sew-sawing between tenderly making love to his childhood seeetheart and roughly fucking the woman who made his professional life Hell. Honestly, he wasn’t sure which one he enjoyed more. Though it was undeniably amusing when those surely expensive shoes of hers rattled off the desk and straight into a puddle of motor oil.</p><p>“I can’t…” she soon began to stutter, breath hitching, whole body spasming against him. “It’s… I can’t stop it. I’m s-sorry- Professor!”</p><p>“It’s okay,” he cooed into her ear, brushing a clump of hair away from her cheek as he pushed in deeper, faster, the desk scraping inches further along the cement with every thrust. “You’ve been so good tonight, Miss Lockhart. So hot and wet and eager. You can come now. It’s okay.”</p><p>It couldn’t have been stopped regardless of his approval. She had already begun unraveling before he started talking. Still, the illusion that she held herself back for him, that she was so duty bound to his control, was what cinched his own violent deliverance seconds later.</p><p>Forgetting the earlier agreement, he came inside her in thick, hot spurts, releasing what felt like a near decade of built up tension and pain and feelings of inadequacy. So hard that, for a moment, he feared he would black out. Relishing the clench of her body, he leaned back as it went on and on, observing her shuddering form whimper against the desk, exhausted but satisfied, the space between her thighs gushing with the evidence of their mutual successes.</p><p>He was good enough. </p><p>At long last, he felt <em> free </em>.</p><p>He felt-</p><hr/><p>Cloud Strife awoke with a start, hand clenching his sweat-stained t-shirt, deep breaths synchronizing with the buzzing of his PHS. </p><p>Not again. </p><p>Wincing, he dared to lift the sticky sheets and glance below to confirm the obvious, only to immediately groan in frustration. </p><p>These dreams...They were long past the point of getting ridiculous. </p><p>Worst of all, he was late for work. </p><p>Miss Lockhart, the <em> real </em>version with tightly pinned hair, stocking and blouses buttoned up to the neck, was gonna be so pissed. </p><hr/><p><br/><b>**Author’s Note**:</b> I NEED AN ADULT. Hahaha. Hope you all enjoyed this random ‘Professor Strife’ smut tangent of mine. After weeks of concentrating on the character-exploration and drama in “The Curriculum”, I needed to get a “ <em> just bang it out, already! </em>” Cloti scene out of my system until my other story naturally arrives there in a couple of chapters. As I have often mentioned that Mr. Strife has been having “nocturnal issues” since Tifa arrived on campus, I figured writing out one of those dreams could be a realistic tangent that still supports my main storyline. Thank you to all the amazing artworks and fics that have come out recently promoting the illustrious educator. He is my crack which I will happily never quit!</p>
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